I am watching you sleep,
disheveled and lost,
as I am lost at the foot of the bed
and the cat feigns sleep,
unconcerned with the dying of cells around her.
I watch the architecture of your bones
beneath the blankets,
darkness has grown tired
and leans against the window
as I watch you sleep.
You shift, and I am tired,
I am so tired of [...]
Love poems are very dark, and best left unheard.
Changing,
like blood spilled warm
onto cooling stones;
leaves that assume
slow rainbows of
dying
They break the bones of every single word.
The ideal candidate with be seven,
and pensive, expensive to feed,
holding the shards of the cauldron
that boiled the world. He will
have lotus-stained lips and eyes
of fire, and hair of golden hue.
He will be all-knowing, and wrathful,
kind and aware. He shall be many,
and one. He will have experience
with Microsoft Windows and creation.
He should hold no malice against
that [...]
He is One,
while I smile to myself
and fear the little spiritual squeegee man,
cheap-leather clad Galilean,
his arms flailing in mad, sacred forms.
He blesses pedestrians and Cadillacs alike
as waves of exhaust rise up, swell,
and enshroud him.
And He is One,
while I drive slowly past, content,
as though the steel gears now turn more smoothly,
the racing engine running not on [...]
leaf-like the lesions fall
about your shoulders and your breast
a glowing autumn
your genes genuflect before
an elder, ashen lord
cells pirouette to mayhem
the dying of stars is echoed
in your cells’ decay
blood abandons its vocation,
it engages now the elder rite of waste
when will you waver,
and disavow at last
this god whose day of creation
has long since passed?
?
The doors whisper because they are new.
When they are old,
and the mechanic grows blind and groping,
they will scream; they whisper now
and we climb onto the waiting bus.
?
A gathering of seven dessicated flies
reclining on the windowsill,
wings rheumy like a seer’s eyes
watching the last star dying out; dark
chitinous husks held together with
a last inheld breath;
the picture window’s frame
a great lake and snow-accented firs
and sun houses.
I see one last fly climbing this postcard
jerking up and down against the glass,
bait
on an arthritic hook
mocked by gulls [...]